She bellied up to the bar that night-
A glass of rye, her only prayer;
The floorboards creaked, under his might,
As bootsteps split the smoky air.
Through swinging doors he strode - a shade
Of some dark storm the desert feared;
He wore his danger unafraid,
A twilight omen drawing near.
A pistol slumbered on his hip,
Itâs pearl grip gleaming pale and sly;
He touched it with a fingertip
The way ...
